great changes came to old mr. dorrit with his money. as they traveled slowly through switzerland and into italy, he put on greater dignity daily.[pg 275] he lived each day suspecting that every one was in some way trying to slight him and grew very much ashamed of his past years in the marshalsea, and forbade all mention of them. he hired a great number of servants, and, to improve the manners of fanny and little dorrit, he employed a woman named mrs. general, who had many silly notions of society.
little dorrit could not even say "father" without being reproved by mrs. general. "papa is preferable, my dear," the lady would insist, "and, besides, it gives a pretty form to the lips. papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes and prisms are all good words for the lips. you will find it serviceable in the formation of a demeanor, if you say to yourself in company—on entering a room, for instance—'papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes and prisms!'"
fanny and tip were as spoiled as possible. fanny, morning and night, thought of nothing but wearing costly dresses and "going into society," and tip did little but play cards and bet on horse-races. only little dorrit, through all, kept her old sweet self unchanged.
wherever they went they lived in splendid hotels. in venice the palace they occupied was six times as big as the whole marshalsea. mr. dorrit, when he remembered arthur clennam at all, spoke of him as an upstart who had intruded his presence upon them in their poverty, and[pg 276] quickly forgot all his kindness and his efforts to help and comfort them.
but little dorrit never forgot. her present existence seemed a dream. she tried to care for her father as she used to do, but he was afraid people would think he had not been used to servants (foolish man!) so she lost even the little pleasure of her old prison life in the marshalsea. there were valets and maids now to do all the little things she had once loved to do with her own hands, and she seemed to be no longer of use to him. she loved her father as dearly as she always had, but now she had begun to feel that she could never see him as he used to be before his prison days, because first poverty and now wealth had changed him. the old sad shadow came over her. he grew angry at her and chid her, and hurt her. it seemed he had entirely forgotten the old days when she slaved so for him.
poor little dorrit! she was far lonelier now than she had ever been before in the debtors' prison—lonelier and unhappier than arthur clennam in london could have guessed. the gay, fashionable life of her brother and sister did not attract her. she was timid of joining in their gaieties. she asked leave only to be left alone, and went about the city in a gondola in a quiet, scared, lost manner. it often seemed to her as if the marshalsea must be just behind the next big building, or mrs. clennam's house, where she had first met arthur,[pg 277] just around the next corner. and she used to look into gondolas as they passed, as if she might see arthur any minute.
in the days of their prison-poverty fanny had occasionally earned some money by dancing at a theater. there she had met a silly, chuckle-headed young man, the son of a mrs. merdle, and he had been fascinated by her beauty. now, in their wealth, he saw fanny again and fell even more deeply in love with her. mrs. merdle was a cold-hearted, artificial woman, who kept a parrot that was always shrieking, and who thought of nothing but riches and society. she would have refused to let her son marry fanny in the old days, but now it was another matter. he proposed, and fanny, who had been made angry a thousand times by mrs. merdle's insolence and patronizing ways, made up her mind to marry him if only to take her revenge on his mother.
mrs. merdle's husband always stayed in london. he was immensely rich—so rich that people said everything he touched turned into gold. he was a quiet, dull man, with dull red cheeks, and cared nothing at all for society, though everybody flattered and courted him.
when old mr. dorrit saw mrs. merdle's son was in love with fanny he was greatly pleased. he had by this time grown so selfish that he considered much less her happiness than his own profit, and he thought if they were married he[pg 278] could persuade mr. merdle to invest his own great fortune for him, so that he would be even richer than he was now. mr. merdle's name had been growing bigger and bigger every day. nobody believed the great man could make a mistake, but that he was going to keep on getting richer and richer (though nobody knew how he did it) as long as he lived.
so, before long, fanny married mrs. merdle's son, and went back to london to take up life in the magnificent merdle mansion with her silly, chuckle-headed husband. mr. merdle had got a very rich position for him in the "circumlocution office" with which arthur clennam had had so much trouble once on a time.
old mr. dorrit went to london, too, and, as he had schemed, gave the famous mr. merdle all his fortune to invest. then he returned to italy, where, in rome, his faithful and lonely little dorrit waited lovingly for him.
on the night after he reached rome mrs. merdle gave a dinner party to a large company, and little dorrit and her father attended.
in the midst of the dinner he suddenly called to her across the table. his voice was so loud and excited that all the guests were frightened and rose to their feet. little dorrit ran to him and put her arms about him, for she saw at once that he was not himself.
he began to address the company, and his first[pg 279] words showed that his mind had failed. he imagined he was still in the debtors' prison and that all the rich people about him were the other poor prisoners. he made them a speech, welcoming them to its walls, thanking them in advance for any money they might give to him as "the father of the marshalsea." and he ended by calling for the old turnkey he had known there to help him up the narrow stair to bed, as he had been used to do in the prison.
little dorrit was not ashamed—she loved him too much for that. her only wish was to soothe him, and with a pale, frightened face, she begged him to come with her.
they got him away at last and carried him to his house. once laid on his bed, he never rose from it again. nor did he regain his memory of the immediate present. that, with its show and its servants, its riches and power, in which little dorrit had had so small a part, had faded out for ever, and now his mind, back in the marshalsea, recognized his daughter as his only stay and faithful comfort.
it was well so, for this was the father she had most loved.
so she watched beside him day and night, while every day his life grew weaker and weaker. every day the shadow of death stole deeper and deeper over his face, until one morning, when the dawn came, they saw that he would never wake again.
